Read Online The Faceless One by Mark Onspaugh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Onspaugh
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most disturbing thing about the mask was that there was no face—no eyeholes, no suggestion of features. Just a smooth, inky-black surface, polished like jet. He handled it carefully, both because of its sharp projections of claw and fang and because he assumed it was quite valuable. Surely, the university would want this.
And yet …
The more he looked at it, the more he wanted it for himself.
He had never had an interest in artifacts before. He liked Daniel’s stories for the adventure, not the acquisition of historical treasures. Daniel had given him a Masai shield for his birthday three years ago. It was gathering dust in a closet. Daniel had never asked his friend why the trophy had not been displayed but started giving Purcival expensive wine after that.
But he wanted this.
The mere thought of giving it to someone, anyone, made him feel a sharp stab of jealousy.
He had been Daniel’s friend and attorney for five years. Didn’t that count for something?
He bet that, had Daniel known, he would have given it to him. Sure, that was it; Daniel thought he didn’t like artifacts. Maybe he had planned to give Purcival this and had changed his mind when he had seen the lack of appreciation for the Masai shield.
A voice in his head told him he was rationalizing a theft, creating a specious argument to justify keeping something that didn’t belong to him. He swept those thoughts away, determined to keep the mask.
He had brought a large nylon gym bag folded up in his briefcase. He retrieved this, happy to see that it would easily accommodate Daniel’s possessions. He was careful to rewrap the mask and cushion it with Daniel’s papers and a copy of the
New York Times
he had in his briefcase.
When he finally closed the gym bag, he was panting and perspiring, as if the temperature had risen to ninety degrees. Now that he had what he wanted, he was anxious to leave.
He picked up the gym bag, retrieved his leather briefcase, and strode purposefully out of the bank.
The bank manager saw him leaving and headed toward him. Purcival pretended for a moment that he didn’t see him, then made himself smile pleasantly as the man caught up to him.
“Everything all right, Mr. Purcival?”
“Yes. My client, as you know, passed away—”
“Yes, dreadful news,” he interrupted, trying to look concerned while dying to hear any sordid details Purcival might be privy to.
“I’ve just cleaned out his safety-deposit boxes. I left the keys with the boxes in the cubicle.”
The manager nodded, still anxious for something juicy.
“Terrible, the way he died,” he hinted, as if he expected Purcival would tell him he didn’t know the half of it and fill him in on the details.
“Yes. I have to go, I’m already late for an appointment.”
“My condolences to the family,” the man said, clearly disappointed. “Good day to you, Mr. Purcival.”
Purcival nodded and walked out. Now that he was out of the bank, he felt much calmer. Now he could enjoy the mask without answering any uncomfortable questions.
He thought of taking it home but realized he spent most of his time at the office. If he had the mask on display there, he could enjoy it more often. Of course, he could also create a place for it at home and take it with him each day. That might be the best solution of all.
As he was contemplating where he might hang the mask, he stopped at a trash can near the corner. Opening the gym bag, he retrieved the flash drives and hard-copy manuscript and threw them away. Later, he would have no recollection of doing so. For the moment, he only experienced a momentary disquiet that was swept away by the thought that he owned the mask.
His firm, Breckforth, Gunderson & Mayfield, occupied the entire tenth floor of the Trump Tower. From Purcival’s office, you could see the pond in Central Park shimmering like a bright new coin. He had worked long and hard to get that office, finally making partner in the latter half of
And yet …
The more he looked at it, the more he wanted it for himself.
He had never had an interest in artifacts before. He liked Daniel’s stories for the adventure, not the acquisition of historical treasures. Daniel had given him a Masai shield for his birthday three years ago. It was gathering dust in a closet. Daniel had never asked his friend why the trophy had not been displayed but started giving Purcival expensive wine after that.
But he wanted this.
The mere thought of giving it to someone, anyone, made him feel a sharp stab of jealousy.
He had been Daniel’s friend and attorney for five years. Didn’t that count for something?
He bet that, had Daniel known, he would have given it to him. Sure, that was it; Daniel thought he didn’t like artifacts. Maybe he had planned to give Purcival this and had changed his mind when he had seen the lack of appreciation for the Masai shield.
A voice in his head told him he was rationalizing a theft, creating a specious argument to justify keeping something that didn’t belong to him. He swept those thoughts away, determined to keep the mask.
He had brought a large nylon gym bag folded up in his briefcase. He retrieved this, happy to see that it would easily accommodate Daniel’s possessions. He was careful to rewrap the mask and cushion it with Daniel’s papers and a copy of the
New York Times
he had in his briefcase.
When he finally closed the gym bag, he was panting and perspiring, as if the temperature had risen to ninety degrees. Now that he had what he wanted, he was anxious to leave.
He picked up the gym bag, retrieved his leather briefcase, and strode purposefully out of the bank.
The bank manager saw him leaving and headed toward him. Purcival pretended for a moment that he didn’t see him, then made himself smile pleasantly as the man caught up to him.
“Everything all right, Mr. Purcival?”
“Yes. My client, as you know, passed away—”
“Yes, dreadful news,” he interrupted, trying to look concerned while dying to hear any sordid details Purcival might be privy to.
“I’ve just cleaned out his safety-deposit boxes. I left the keys with the boxes in the cubicle.”
The manager nodded, still anxious for something juicy.
“Terrible, the way he died,” he hinted, as if he expected Purcival would tell him he didn’t know the half of it and fill him in on the details.
“Yes. I have to go, I’m already late for an appointment.”
“My condolences to the family,” the man said, clearly disappointed. “Good day to you, Mr. Purcival.”
Purcival nodded and walked out. Now that he was out of the bank, he felt much calmer. Now he could enjoy the mask without answering any uncomfortable questions.
He thought of taking it home but realized he spent most of his time at the office. If he had the mask on display there, he could enjoy it more often. Of course, he could also create a place for it at home and take it with him each day. That might be the best solution of all.
As he was contemplating where he might hang the mask, he stopped at a trash can near the corner. Opening the gym bag, he retrieved the flash drives and hard-copy manuscript and threw them away. Later, he would have no recollection of doing so. For the moment, he only experienced a momentary disquiet that was swept away by the thought that he owned the mask.
His firm, Breckforth, Gunderson & Mayfield, occupied the entire tenth floor of the Trump Tower. From Purcival’s office, you could see the pond in Central Park shimmering like a bright new coin. He had worked long and hard to get that office, finally making partner in the latter half of
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